


Fragile

by sixoutoften



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Anorexia, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:03:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixoutoften/pseuds/sixoutoften
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan doesn't see what the big deal is. He likes being thin. It's the same with the cutting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragile

Ryan doesn't see what the big deal is.

It's okay to be thin. Maybe not as thin as he is, but he doesn't let himself think about that. It's perfectly okay to be skinny, to have no meat on your bones, to be fragile. 

It's a new-found addiction, he thinks. He's only just fallen into the habit of starving, an act of rebellion, at first, against everyone who expects him to be  _so_  perfect. Whether it's still rebellion or not, he's not going to stop.

Besides, Ryan  _likes_  being thin. He likes looking in the mirror and meeting a gaunt face, likes being able to count his ribs through his skin. He likes the constant rumble of his stomach that reminds him it's been days since he's had a sufficient amount to eat.

It's the same with the cutting. It's fine to have wounds, scars to remember your hardships by. He  _likes_  the look of the scabs on his skin, and he likes the sting that comes with making them.

And if people don't like it, then so be it. He can hide behind heavy jackets and long sleeves for them. Everyone's got something to hide; his own father drinks when no one's around, to the point of passing out. He can make sure his dirty little secret goes unseen, just like everyone else.

As long as Ryan is happy, then everything is alright.

-

Ryan sits outside on the pavement, back pressed against the cool brick of the school. He stares out at the football field, where the gym classes have their students out doing running exercises. 

Ryan sighs, walking his feet closer to his body until his knees are pulled to his chin, and he hugs his legs tightly with his arms; he thinks he hears something crack in his shoulder from underneath his sweater.

It's not really cold out, the early October air still holding a bit of warmth, but Ryan is cold no matter what the weather now, especially since dropping those few pounds earlier in the week.

Tucking his chin into his elbows, Ryan looks back at the students outside, their thin legs swinging back and forth nimbly. They're all so skinny, Ryan thinks, and for them it's effortless. He wishes it were the same for him.

The sound of footsteps approaches him, and he shifts his gaze to see a pair of tattered red sneakers standing beside him. Looking up, he finds a boy whom he recognizes from a few of his classes, Brendon-something. Barely a word has ever been spoken between the two, but sometimes Ryan likes to watch him as he works or walks down the cafeteria aisles, staring down his lean frame in malign envy.

Ryan squints up at Brendon, the sky still bright despite the sun being hidden behind the clouds. "May I help you?" he asks, meaning to sound rude, but his voice coming out small.

Brendon shrugs, and a moment passes with nothing but the commotion from the field in the distance filling their ears. Finally, Brendon speaks up. "Can I ask you a question?"

"I'd rather you not," Ryan mumbles, because really, he doesn't open up to his own father when he's sober enough to care, so why would he open up to someone he hardly knows?

Ignoring Ryan's obvious disapproval, Brendon drops his backpack to the ground, dragging it closer as he sits down beside Ryan on the concrete. "It's important," he says insistently. Ryan doesn't respond.

After a minute or so with still no answer, Brendon blurts out, "Are you anorexic?"

Ryan's heart skips a beat. He can feel his face heating up, cheeks red. He looks at Brendon, trying hard to remain expressionless while the fear of being figured out burns in his chest.

Brendon must see through Ryan's calm facade, because his eyes go wide and he stutters, "N-no, I didn't mean like– I don't think it's a bad thing or anything, it's just that–"

"That what?" Ryan interrupts, "That you thought you could make blind assumptions about me when you barely even know me?"

"I'm not making blind assumptions, I swear," Brendon explains, "I just noticed that you never eat lunch– I mean, you're out here right now, instead of the cafeteria. And you always looks so skinny, and I just figured..."

"It's none of your business, anyway," Ryan says, for lack of better defense. 

"So, you are, then?" Brendon asks, gently. Ryan doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to for Brendon to know. Brendon nods his head in understanding, though he knows Ryan isn't looking.

A moment goes by before Ryan asks, "Why do you care, anyway?" He wants for it to sound mean, but his words lack any venom.

"I was, too." Brendon says, "Last year, I mean, I was. Anorexic." 

Ryan pauses, sympathy flickering in his eyes for only a second before returning to his standoffish state. He returns the frown to his lips and says, "My condolences, but how does this affect me?"

 

"I want to help you."

-

Ryan doesn't talk. He only speaks up in class when he needs to, and when he does, it's never to another student. It's always been that way, and he doesn't break his self-imposed rules for anyone.

Every word holds a thought, and every thought lets people see who he is, how he works. With talking comes familiarity. Ryan doesn't want to risk it.

But with Brendon, he can't help but speak up. There's something about him– and really, Ryan doesn't even know this kid– but something about him compels Ryan to open up. Maybe it's the tingly feeling that spreads throughout his body whenever he tells a secret. Maybe it's the thought of actually having someone there for him when he needs it. But whatever the reason, Ryan's already let it slip why he doesn't eat. 

He wants to take it back, wants to make it so that he and Brendon are nothing more than strangers again. But Brendon says it's good that Ryan told him, that it'll ultimately help him get better. 

Ryan has no choice but to believe him.

-

Brendon makes Ryan get lunch, rather than sitting outside the school for the hour. 

Ryan doesn't eat at first, just pushes his food around with his fork. But he can feel Brendon's eyes burning holes in his skin, and he forces down a few bites before the bell rings. It makes him feel disgusting, but he'd do anything to get Brendon to stop  _staring_  at him. Besides, it seems to impress Brendon some.

Brendon sends him a smile before they part ways in the hallways, Brendon heading to his next class and Ryan faking a smile in return and heading straight to the abandoned bathroom down the hall.

-

Ryan kneels on the dirty tiled floor, hunched over the toilet, fingers pushing at the back of his throat until those few bites of food are gone. 

He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, sitting back on his heels. He wants to feel better ( _you're okay now, it's as if you hadn't eaten a thing_ ), but his mind flashes back to the smile Brendon gave him earlier, and suddenly he's crying, slumped against the bathroom stall door, hiccuping and sniffling and wanting to get better, for Brendon.

-

Ryan walks into his house to find his father sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, fingers rubbing an ache away from his temples. Looking around, there doesn't seem to be a single bottle or can in the entire room, nor in the living room, and the stench of alcohol isn't wafting through the air like usual.

Ryan clears his throat, and his father looks up, forcing a smile at his son. "Hey, Ryan. How was school?" he asks, too bright, too familiar, and, although he doesn't sound genuinely interested, it's more words than he's spoken to Ryan in a long time.

"Fine, I guess," Ryan answers, his voice meager.

He shifts from foot to foot, awkwardly, his father looking him up and down. Finally, his father breaks the silence, nodding toward the fridge and saying, "You look hungry. Why don't you eat something?"

Ryan nods, grabbing the smallest snack he can find, retreating to his room. 

He doesn't want to eat it, but Brendon's smile appears in his head again, and he manages a bite before throwing it away.

-

The next day, Ryan eats nearly half of his lunch without hesitation, pointedly looking at Brendon now and again to check if he's watching. The full feeling in his stomach is hard to get used to, but he doesn't throw it up, doesn't want to. 

-

Ryan asks if Brendon would like to come to his house after school, to which Brendon says yes. Brendon must think it's just a friendly gesture (which it isn't; even after a month has passed, they're still not  _friends_ , not really), but Ryan has something to show Brendon, something that can't be shown in the school cafeteria.

-

Ryan unlocks the door slowly, peering inside to see if his father is home, or if there are any empty alcohol bottles scattered around like usual. However, as of late, there haven't been any issues with his father's drinking, so much so that Ryan doesn't even need to call it an issue anymore. 

He breathes a silent sigh of relief, stepping aside and letting Brendon in.

They go upstairs to Ryan's bedroom, and over to the adjoined bathroom. Ryan flicks on the light, revealing a seemingly ordinary setting. However, when he reaches out with one heavily clothed and well-hidden arm, opening a drawer below the sink, Brendon can see that it's anything but ordinary.

The drawer is filled, a few razors and a few loose blades, a pair of scissors, and a few plastic knives that appear to have been taken from the cafeteria.

Ryan looks up, turns to look into Brendon's eyes, gauging his reaction, and he's met with a confused expression.

Taking a deep breath, Ryan rolls up his sleeves and shows Brendon his arms, the scarred expanses of skin. 

After a moment of Brendon simply staring, he examines Ryan's arms closer, tracing his fingers lightly along the skin, not speaking a word, breaking his gaze away from the fragile flesh only to look into Ryan's eyes, silently asking for an answer.

"I wanted to be stronger," Ryan explains, his voice low, ashamed, almost, and why,  _why_  is he doing this? "I figured you could only be strong if you've experienced weakness or pain. Vulnerability." 

Brendon nods, understanding, maybe. "I think you're strong," he says, surprising Ryan. He points to the older scars, long since healed and slightly faded. "These show that you are." He gestures, more carefully, now, to the fresh cuts. "These don't."

-

It's late and Brendon has left, and Ryan is sitting alone in his room, contemplating. Brendon hadn't said anything about the razors, so he doesn't have to do anything about it, really.

Then again, Ryan knows that Brendon wants him to stop cutting; he could tell by the look in Brendon's eyes when the wounds were presented to him. 

Ryan sighs, rising up from his spot on his bed, walking over to the bathroom. He opens the drawer, gazing down at each shiny blade, each one a relief, a solution to his problems. He reaches down, picking one up, running a finger lightly over the sharp edge. He can almost feel the razor cutting into his skin, the satisfying sting followed by the blood dripping down his arm.

He closes his eyes. He can't do it anymore. He needs to get better. 

Extending his arm, he releases his grip on the razor, hearing it fall with a clang into the trash bin in the corner. He turns, reaching back into the drawer and grabbing the other blades, throwing them out as well. 

He stares down at the discarded metal for only a moment before he's turning off the light, suddenly exhausted, and going to bed.

-

It takes a week for Ryan to muster up the courage to look at himself in the mirror. He hadn't looked in a while, not since Brendon came along; he didn't want to see his reflection and be disappointed, for whatever reason. But he's starting to like Brendon's idea of recovering, improving, and to do so, he has to see what needs improvement.

He'd looked around to make sure the house was otherwise empty, and now he stands before the full-body mirror in his father's bedroom, taking a deep breath before slowly lifting the hem of his shirt.

He opens his eyes (unsure of when he actually closed them), and finds that he's thin, still, but not nearly as thin as before. He can still count his bones easily just by looking, but even so, he can hear the word echoing in his head:  _better_.

-

On Monday, Ryan grabs lunch without even thinking, now a normal routine, and he laughs and talks with Brendon about nothing in particular between bites.

-

Ryan notices, one day while his father is cleaning the house and Ryan is tucked away in his bedroom, that the last of his cuts have healed, nothing left but thin scars, fainter than the rest. 

His mind wanders back to his razors, and the one he'd kept, hidden under his mattress, hidden from Brendon or his father or anyone else who might see it. He thinks of how he'd kept it, just in case he wanted–   _needed–_  it.

But the thought passes just as quickly as it arrived; Ryan likes the absence of red on his skin, likes not having to be wary of his wounds so as to not infect them.

He doesn't think he'll need the razor anymore.

-

Ryan pauses while getting dressed on a Wednesday morning, half-swallowed by his usual thick, heavy jacket. He looks out the window above his bed, and, although it's still early spring, it looks like it'll be warm later.

It seems to him like enough of an excuse to not hide himself. He slips out of his jacket, dropping it to the floor.

- 

Ryan passes his father by as he sprints to the front door, waving goodbye and exchanging a smile with him before heading to school.

-

As Ryan walks into the cafeteria to meet up with Brendon as per usual, he notices Brendon's eyes going wide for a moment before he smiles.

When Ryan gets closer, Brendon's smile only widens as he graces Ryan's bare arm with the side of his hand.

Ryan smiles back, feeling something like butterflies in his gut, disregarding it as happiness, pride. 

Shaking the thought away, he follows close behind Brendon as they head over to get their lunch.

-

As time passes, Ryan falls into the habit of being (somewhat) normal, and he doesn't even think of cutting or starving himself anymore.

He feels good. Better yet, he feels  _happy_.

-

Brendon says he's proud of Ryan. That it'd taken some months, but Ryan is definitely recovering, and he's glad.

Ryan thanks him. He says he never would have been able to do it without Brendon.

Brendon says it wasn't him, it was Ryan's own strength, his own will.

Ryan nods, smile still gleaming on his face, but inside he knows he did it for Brendon.

-

Ryan realizes, somewhere between waking up in the morning and walking to the cafeteria, that he's in love with Brendon.

Normally this would scare him. If it were anyone else, Ryan would be cutting more and eating less, punishing himself for falling in love with another boy.

But Brendon isn't scary. He helped Ryan, so much so that he doesn't want to do those things to himself anymore. He thinks he might even like it, the idea of loving Brendon.

He likes the fluttery feeling in his stomach when he reaches the cafeteria each day, Brendon waiting for him with a goofy grin on his face. Ryan likes that grin, the way it makes him smile right back. He likes the way their shoulders bump when they walk, and the way Brendon laughs when Ryan says something that isn't that funny.

-

"I like you."

Brendon freezes.

"A lot."

Silence.

When Ryan had come to his house, Brendon trailing behind, they'd both been wearing smiles on their faces, a light feeling in Ryan's chest. Now, with Brendon's expression blank before him, the feeling has dissipated, any trace of a smile gone.

Ryan stares into Brendon's eyes, searching for a reaction, a response, anything.

Brendon blinks and Ryan snaps back into reality.

After what feels like forever, Brendon sputters out that he has something to do at home, that he'd completely forgotten. And, even though Ryan can tell it's a blatant lie, he nods, watching as Brendon practically runs out the front door, not looking back.

-

Just as soon as the door is slammed in his face, Ryan is running up the stairs to his bedroom. Crouching at the foot of his bed, he lifts up the corner of his mattress, staring down the razor blade he'd saved after throwing the rest out.

He reaches out and touches it lightly, the metal cool on his fingertips. 

His mind flashes back to the last time he'd cut, the sharp sting melting into an almost intoxicating ache. He wonders how good it would feel to do it again, after so long of going without. It's tempting.

But he can't do it. He still loves Brendon, whether or not Brendon reciprocates the feelings (which he's still unsure of; Brendon hadn't really said), and he still has to stay strong for him.

He closes his eyes and lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, letting the mattress drop down, concealing the razor once again.

-

Ryan wakes up the next afternoon to the sound of his phone. Normally it wouldn't ring at all– he never called or texted anyone, rendering his phone somewhat pointless, more of a watch than anything. But he'd given Brendon his number a while back, and now every message makes him smile.

But this morning, Ryan doesn't smile, because he knows what the message is going to be about. 

Sighing, he reads the text on the screen, and, surely enough, it's Brendon, asking if he can come over to Ryan's house later, to talk.

Heart rate speeding up just enough to be noticed, Ryan types back,  _okay_. When Brendon texts back a set time, Ryan sets his phone aside, sitting up and running a hand through his hair, figuring he should get out of bed sooner rather than later. 

-

It's nice outside, just beginning to get hot out.

Ryan knows Brendon will be coming soon, to  _talk_ , and he knows what the topic of conversation will be. He needs to clear his head; yesterday Brendon hadn't even said anything on the subject and Ryan had almost cut. He doesn't want to relapse today, not after this long. Not ever.

-

Ryan steps outside, squinting in the bright sunlight. He walks down the path from his door, passing by the empty recycle bin, which has, as of late, had a pleasant lack of liquor bottles. He smiles at the thought of his father getting better, too, as he walks down the sidewalk, heading nowhere in particular.

He ends up walking a few blocks to a small, typically empty park, one with a field and a gazebo that are nice enough to make Ryan wonder why no one comes here. 

Expect that today, there are people here, a boy and a girl sitting in the gazebo's shade. Upon closer inspection, Ryan recognizes the girl as a classmate of his, Sarah, and the boy as Brendon.

Brendon and Sarah are talking– about what, Ryan can't tell, but neither of the two are smiling. Brendon says something and Sarah hangs her head down low, concern etched on Brendon's face. Sarah looks back up at Brendon through her eyelashes, pausing for a moment before surging forward, kissing Brendon's lips. Brendon doesn't stop her.

And, as much as he wants to move, to close his eyes or turn his head, Ryan is frozen there, watching the person he loves kiss someone else.

-

After what feels like hours pass, Ryan regains his sense, and suddenly something in his mind snaps, and he's running.

-

Through the shock of Sarah's lips pressed hard against his, Brendon can hear footsteps slamming against pavement (which, he realizes just as soon as the thought had crossed his mind, isn't just his heart pounding in his ears). He jerks his head away from Sarah's, looking down at her with bitter eyes (this is  _not_  how breakups are supposed to go) before turning his attention to the sound of the footsteps.

He can see long, lanky legs running away, turning a corner, and they can only be recognized as Ryan's.

Brendon sends one more glance of disdain toward Sarah, causing her to look almost ashamedly down at her lap, before he runs off to catch up with Ryan.

-

Ryan doesn't realize he's crying until after he'd run the whole way home, slamming the door behind him and sprinting up the stairs to his bedroom (ignoring the sudden abundance of glass bottles half-hidden in the kitchen and the sudden absence of his father).

As he kneels by his bed, he wipes blindly at his eyes with the back of his hand, before lifting the corner of the mattress, taking the spared razor in his palm.

He doesn't want to cut, really, he doesn't. But the only reason he'd stopped was for Brendon, for the hope that maybe Brendon would like him back if he got better. It was the same with eating again. Everything he did was for him.

Walking on weak legs to the bathroom, Ryan rubs at his wet eyes until they sting, and he thinks back to how happy he was, back when he was in the habit of regularly destroying himself. How incredible he felt when he would look down to find rows of new wounds on his arms, rows of ribs becoming more and more visible through his flesh with each passing day.

One glance in the mirror through tear-blurred eyes, and Ryan is dropping the razor and sinking to his knees, prodding at the back of his throat until he's throwing up every bit of anything he'd eaten earlier that morning (which wasn't much; a burn rises from deep in his throat from the stomach acids sufficing for the lack of food).

Flushing the toilet, Ryan sits back on his heels, and his throat stings when he chokes out sobs. 

He reaches out for the razor, pressing it to his wrist and etching a thin red line into his skin almost immediately. When he doesn't feel better, he repeats the process, carving cuts on his arm without hesitation.

He doesn't realize, through the muddled mess of thoughts crowding his mind, just how hard he's pressing the razor's blade into his skin.

-

Brendon has only been to Ryan's house a couple times, each time with Ryan leading the way, and so he gets somewhat lost running after him, making a wrong turn. He manages to correct himself, eventually, arriving at Ryan's front door. He opens it with ease; though it seems to stick from having been slammed shut (the only indication needed to know that Ryan is here), it's unlocked.

He steps inside and calls out Ryan's name, to no avail, scanning each room, finding only emptiness and lifelessness (and the intimidating scent of alcohol emanating from several half-drunk bottles of varying brands on the kitchen counter).

There's one last flickering hope left, just up the stairs, Brendon thinks, as he sprints up the flight of steps, toward Ryan's bedroom.

-

Ryan switches his gaze from the wall straight ahead of him down to his arms, the deep cuts he'd been creating almost subconsciously.

Something rises in the back of his throat– anger, regret, whatever– and wow, he thinks, he'd never really changed, had he? He'd been the same all along, a relapse waiting to happen. Always dreaming of the edge of the knife.

He sighs, feeling dizzy, lightheaded. He closes his eyes, only for a second.

-

The smell of blood hits Brendon halfway up the stairs, and panic sets in quick. The lights are off but a glow seeps out from the bathroom door, open just a crack, and Brendon heads toward it on trembling legs.

What he finds sends tears to his eyes, welling there and blurring his sight, but not hindering his shaky voice as he begs for Ryan to open his eyes, wake up. 

Minutes pass with Ryan not responding, and Brendon pulls his phone out from his pocket, dialing 9-1-1.

-

Brendon lies and says Ryan is his brother. Anything to be able to see him.

Ryan's father agrees, nods his head and tells the nurses convincingly enough that Brendon is his son. Brendon doesn't think the man even knows who he is–  they'd crossed paths once at Ryan's house, and that's it– but he must be too exhausted to care; from the bags under his eyes and the way he'd been rubbing at his forehead, it looks as if he's hungover (and Brendon had never asked about Ryan's family situation, nor had Ryan ever brought it up, but Brendon can easily assume those bottles in the kitchen were his father's).

Brendon shakes the thought out of his head, none of his business, anyway, when Ryan's father walks over, back from visiting his son in his room, and sits in the ugly waiting room chair two away, with what looks like concern spread on his face. 

Brendon waits a moment, unsure, before rising from his seat and asking a nurse to show him the way to his brother. 

When he finally does arrive at Ryan's room, he finds Ryan lying in a bed that looks too big for his skinny body. Bandages cover his arms, an IV drip stuck into his vein where one length of gauze ends. His eyes are closed, and Brendon's heart skips a beat, but he forces himself to keep calm; the rise and fall of Ryan's chest along with the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor beside the bed assure him that Ryan is okay (relatively speaking).

Brendon finds himself walking closer, and he takes a seat in the chair beside Ryan's bed. 

Looking down at Ryan's pale face, Brendon can't help but feel that this is somehow his fault. Ryan must have seen Sarah kiss him, misinterpreted the entire thing.

"I don't want Sarah," Brendon whispers mainly to himself, reaching down and petting at Ryan's hair, not entirely aware of himself, "I want you."

-

Brendon blinks and his eyes sting. He wonders how long he's been here. A nurse had told him to leave after an hour or so the previous night, but he'd slept in the waiting room, refusing to leave, and had insisted on coming back to see his  _brother_  as soon as he'd woken up this morning.

It must have been a few hours, at least, since he'd trudged back in here, all the while staring down at Ryan, his blank face, his arms, wrapped in gauze. Distantly, Brendon wonders if this sort of thing has ever happened before.

-

When Ryan opens his eyes, Brendon almost cries. He manages to hold himself back from lunging at Ryan, but when Ryan blinks and says, voice rough and gravelly, "I'm sorry, Bren," he can't help but surge forward, encasing Ryan in an embrace.

Ryan hesitates before hugging back as best he can, wrapping one arm around Brendon's waist, IV drip in the other. It's only a moment before he tenses up, remembering what made him cut himself so bad the previous night. He pulls away from the heat of Brendon's body in favor of the dull hospital chill. 

Neither of them says a word, and Brendon takes advantage of the silence, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Ryan's lips, to which Ryan initially freezes, but quickly gives in, kissing back.

When Brendon pulls away (all too soon), he rests his forehead against Ryan's, traces a finger lightly along his bandage-clad arm, and says, "You're an idiot, but I love you."


End file.
